by Ophelia Bell
Sam’s seen deeper, sussed out a need I didn’t realize I had, and has taken initiative to coax me through accepting his favor too.
“We can stop if it’s too much,” he says when I don’t move for a second, still struggling to catch my breath. My pussy feels heavy and hot, and there’s no way in hell I can stop now without winding up frustrated and irritable for the rest of the day.
I refocus on the thick, hard shaft I have one hand wrapped around, then bend toward it, glancing at him once and saying, “Not a chance.” Then I lift his cock until it’s vertical and wrap my mouth around the tip, taking him as deep as I possibly can.
The hoarse moan he lets out sends a fresh wave of desire down between my legs. He tightens his fingers around my ass cheek, the tips digging into the crease just beside my slick heat. When he regains his senses, he teases his fingertips beneath my panties again, this time finding my entrance and pushing two fingers into me. I moan around his cock and push back against his touch.
“Fuck, Toni, is your pussy this wet because of me? Christ, you’re drenched.”
His touch makes it a struggle to focus on what I’m doing, but I find a rhythm between stroking and sucking and become completely absorbed in the feel and taste of him. It’s liberating to let myself simply enjoy the moment, to let the pleasure he gives wash over my body. He begins to alternate between finger-fucking me and teasing my clit with slick, fast circles.
“It isn’t fair, you know. You get to put your mouth on me, but I can’t put mine on you. I would die happy if I could taste you. If I could dip my tongue all the way into this honey. Suck this clit. Feel you come all over my mouth.”
The rough need in his voice is interrupted by a groan and a surge of his hips. His free hand moves to my head while the one between my thighs fucks me harder.
“Toni, oh fuck. I’m going to come.”
Me too.
The very idea of him losing it and spilling in my mouth makes me hotter. Add to that his now-frantic stroking of my clit and I’m done. I buck my hips in time with his teasing fingers and suck him harder, cupping his balls with my other hand and gently tugging and squeezing. He lets out a desperate groan and jacks his hips into my fist.
Hot, salty fluid lands on my tongue, and I swallow his cock deeper even as I’m giving up control of the rest of my body. Pleasure rocks through me and he shoves his fingers deep into me again, fucking me through my own orgasm while I continue to suck him dry.
I fall to the side, satisfied and buzzed. I could fall asleep, but I had a plan for today, and it encroaches before I can enjoy the afterglow. Reality begins to seep in too, along with inevitable regret that leaves a sick knot in my belly. What the fuck did I just do?
I’m still lying on my side, eye level with Sam’s knees and his big hand resting on my thigh. His breathing is still fast, but slowing gradually. He drifts his wet fingertips along the side of my leg, and I realize he’s tracing the contour of one of my tattoos.
“I want to see you naked. Fair’s fair, after all.”
I’m silent, because my mind has departed and it’s too far gone to reel it back in, but he’s clearly still entrenched. When I don’t answer, he shifts up onto his elbows.
“Toni? Everything okay down there?”
“Peachy,” I say, forcing the anxious bubbles down and plastering on what I hope is a sated smile. He doesn’t look convinced.
“Whatever’s going through your head, I think you need to remember there are two of us here right now.”
Logic isn’t exactly on my side at the moment, though, and I can’t tell him what’s really going through my head—that I feel like I’ve just betrayed someone by messing around with him. It doesn’t matter that the person I betrayed is dead.
13
Sam
“Toni, don’t check out on me.”
Alarm propels me and I yang my shorts back up. Toni doesn’t respond. Her eyes are tightly closed and she curls into herself, clutching her knees to her chest in a fetal position. She’s breathing erratically, which isn’t the reaction I’d have hoped for moments after giving her an orgasm, and her nails are digging into the backs of her arms so hard she’s leaving marks.
“S-Sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.” She shakes her head rapidly, then her entire body starts to quake with racking sobs.
I scramble over and curl myself around her, holding her as tightly as I can. I don’t say anything. What in the world is there to say that wouldn’t sound crass as hell? I can still smell sex and we’re both coated in each other’s scents, but what we did evidently triggered her in a bad way, so drawing attention to the event is the last thing I want to do.
Eventually her sobbing eases and she sniffles. I press my lips to her temple, glad she at least allowed me to hold her through whatever storm of crazy emotions this was. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry for. Despite how you might view me, I am a grown-up. I’d also never lie to you. If I didn’t want you, you’d know.”
She clears her throat. “I don’t think it was you I was apologizing to,” she rasps. “You’re the first man I’ve let this close since Manny.”
I take a moment to absorb the information, though I’m not surprised. We’ve both been workaholics for the past three years, running from our own grief. Neither of us has taken time to find pleasure outside of our daily grind.
“Remember what I told you the other day? I haven’t been this close to a woman since high school. I know it’s different. My girlfriend didn’t die. She just dumped me. But that year was a long string of shitty events, and that was just the first thing. Coming to work for you at the end was the only bright spot. I have zero regrets about anything involving you, Toni.”
“Not even being stuck in Mexico with a woman who’s a hot fucking mess? Who loses her shit after sucking your dick?”
An involuntary laugh escapes my throat and I clear it to cover it up. “There are no conditions on how you react after sucking my dick. The fact that you did it pretty much trumps everything. But you need to know I also have zero expectations beyond making sure you’re okay. I’m not oblivious. I know what you went through . . . what you’re going through. If all I am is an outlet to move past it, I can survive.”
I’m also the biggest liar on earth because I crave so much more, but I’m used to being realistic.
She heaves a sigh and turns in my arms. I prop myself on an elbow and look down at her tear-stained cheeks and puffy hazel eyes.
“That isn’t really fair to you.” She reaches up and grazes her fingertips down my cheek, sending a tingle of pure awareness all the way to my toes. Holding her like this is a dream come true, but I’m not stupid enough to start believing it’s the start of something. I can still hope, though.
“What’s fair is you finding a way to be happy. If you’re happy, I’m happy. That’s pretty much all there is to it.”
Pain flares in her eyes and she takes a stuttering breath. “There’s something you need to know. Give me your hand.”
She reaches for my free hand, pulling my fingers to her left forearm, just above the bandage that covers her wrist. She grazes my fingertips up along the inside of her arm, all the way to her bicep. At first I think it’s a prelude to seduction, but when it hits me what she’s showing me, my stomach drops. Beneath the elaborate tattoos, there are faint ridges that the ink can’t account for.
“What are those scars from?”
“Manny’s not the first person I’ve lost to a bullet. My dad worked for Papá Flores. He was killed when I was in high school. My coping skills weren’t all that great, but I discovered—by accident, really—that physical pain was a perfect distraction from the agony of losing him.
“One day not long after his funeral I was helping Mom in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, and we were arguing about something—I don’t even remember what. School, probably. But I remember hating her because I believed it was her fault he died, because she would never quit working for Arturo and let us lea
ve LA. I wasn’t watching what I was doing, and the next thing I knew, I was bleeding.
“And I just remember how shocked I was, staring down at the cut, the blood welling up, and the cold clarity the pain gave me. For the next few moments, I felt nothing else. No anger, no grief . . . Nothing.”
She holds up her hand, showing me the long, thin scar that extends down the first three knuckles alongside her index finger. I swallow hard.
“The next time I cut myself was on purpose, and I kept doing it. Anything to break through the awful agony inside me, anything to prove I could control what hurt me. But one day Celeste caught me and forced me to come clean about why. It’s her fault I’m a tattoo artist now, you know. She’s like a fucking bulldog with a problem. I didn’t want Mom to know, so Celeste came up with the idea for me to get a tattoo to cover it all up. We were just fifteen, mind you, but she dragged me down to a tattoo shop in Santa Monica and bribed the artist to help me. You’ve met Zarya . . . she’s been working on your brother’s cover-up.”
“No shit, she’s who trained you?” I ask.
“Yep. I’d already been into art and drawing for years. She showed me the ropes. I didn’t officially apprentice with her, but whenever I had time, I’d visit her studio and just absorb whatever she had to teach. She gave me my first machine, and Celeste volunteered to be my first victim. Mom and Arturo were pissed, naturally, but I think they just felt obligated to be angry about it. I mean, it could’ve been so much worse for both of us. We were good girls otherwise.”
I stroke her arm again, slowly tracing each of the faint ridges, wondering what pain she’d been escaping from with each of those cuts. Then I drop my gaze to the bandage and touch it lightly. “That’s why you gave yourself this tattoo, isn’t it? Are there others?”
She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “I’ve been mostly better for a long time. When the fame hit, it threw me for a little while, but by that stage I had enough autonomy to find myself a proper therapist and actually talk about it. Celeste’s fault again—she’d had a therapist for a while already. Her mom died years before my dad did. Plus I’m pretty sure she’d been screwing your brother for a few months by then, which was probably a better distraction than my outlet.”
I snort. “Yeah, they were hot and heavy for a while. I was only about seven years old, but I remember the two of them sneaking off into the locker room at Mom’s dance studio after hours.”
“She was way more mature at that age than I was. That girl has pretty much always had her shit together. Talking to her made me realize how therapeutic actually doing tattoos could be, so I started channeling all my emotional turmoil into my work. I only gave myself tattoos when I was in a positive frame of mind, to try to control the link to the pain so I only associated it with positive things. Milestones—like you, I guess. Then I met Manny and told him all my secrets, and he offered to be an outlet for me. If I ever needed to do a tattoo to ease some anxiety or hurt, he’d be there for me.”
“Do you really tell yourself that?” I ask, incredulous. “Because you’re the last person who comes to mind when I think about people who don’t have their shit together. You amaze me constantly, Toni. Life’s thrown some awful shit at you. So what if you need some kind of release valve? Most of us do. Art was my thing. Drawing fucked up scenes with alien creatures was what I did if I needed to banish the dark thoughts that plagued me at night. But I also spent a good bit of time in the gym. Sparring ring, mostly. Hitting people makes for great therapy. Preferably willing opponents who hit back.”
She studies me as if seeing me for the first time. “Is that where you got that scar?” she asks, brushing a thumb over the skin above my left eyebrow.
I raise my hand to touch the small line that juts across my brow bone and chuckle. “Actually, your brothers gave me that.”
“In the ring?” she asks, her brows knitting. “I didn’t know you guys trained together.”
“We don’t. This was from a legit street brawl when I was eighteen. I caught them with photos of my sister and we had it out.”
Her eyes widen. “Baz and Ben? What kind of photos?”
I shrug and wave a hand. “I overreacted. They’ve been friends with Elle for a while. Not saying I like it, but I can’t really talk. I guarantee you if they knew what we were up to, they’d want to add a matching scar to the other side of my face.”
“Oh God, if those two give you shit, you send them to me, okay?”
“What would they give me shit over? What happens in Cancún stays in Cancún, right?” I search her eyes, and a hopeful little flutter vibrates in my belly when she bites her lip. But she nods and sighs, and the hope dissipates.
“This is more than blowing off steam, though,” she says in a serious tone. “I’m painfully aware of how serious it is when I have these urges. I haven’t actually cut myself since I was a teen, but it’s crossed my mind too many times within the past few years. This . . .” She raises her bandaged wrist to show me. “. . . is what falling off the wagon looks like. I didn’t give myself this tattoo to celebrate a victory—I did it to escape the hurt inside me. It’s as if manifesting the pain externally somehow helps me face it.”
“Can I see?” I ask, reaching for her hand. She extends it and I gently peel back the adhesive strip to peer beneath.
It’s a photorealistic image of an exploded bullet nestled in the center of a rose. I can’t help but clench my teeth as raw emotion wells inside me. It looks just like the bullet Mason wears on a chain around his neck. But I’ve seen another like it.
“Leo’s bullet. That’s the one that killed Manny, isn’t it?”
Her lips press into a tight line and she nods. “You recognize it.”
“Mason has one too. They took it out of his spine the night he died—the night we believed he died. Callie kept it all this time and gave it to him when they got engaged.”
“Oh wow. Maybe someday we can give a couple bullets back to that bastard.”
“We should be so lucky,” I say, bringing her hand close and pressing my lips to the tattoo. Then I look into her eyes, heart in my throat. “Toni, if you need an outlet, please come to me. I already told you I wanted you to be the one to do my tattoos. I meant it. My body is yours.”
She studies me intently, then curls her fingers around the nape of my neck. I’m not sure I believe what the intimacy of that touch is signaling, but the tilt of her head and the lowering of her lashes screams “kiss me.”
“Sam, I would be honored. Now will you fucking kiss me already?”
Having her lips wrapped around my dick was one thing. A sexual favor like that is something I can just take at face value. She wanted to get me off, and she did. But this is something entirely different, especially in the aftermath of her confession. Being invited to kiss her is akin to being privy to all those secrets, being shown that she’s willing to trust me with more than just a casual friendship or working relationship.
God, don’t let me fuck this up.
14
Sam
I take a beat before lowering my mouth to hers. She lets out a desperate little moan against my lips before her tongue darts out, meeting mine halfway. I clutch at her side as she raises up to meet me, her fingers grazing up the back of my neck to curl into my hair. Her mouth tastes salty from her tears and my heart clenches. I have to be careful with her, and not because I’m worried she’ll hurt me—there’s every possibility that she’ll fucking destroy me, but I don’t really give a fuck about myself right now.
No, I’m far more concerned that the secrets I’m keeping will ultimately destroy her, and that she’ll blame me when she finds out the truth.
But does that mean I won’t give in to every request she makes of me? Not a fucking chance.
I pull away with a groan, forcing myself to put distance between us so I can breathe. Her brows twitch with confusion and I shrug. “I need to cool off. I don’t think either of us are ready for what’s likely to happen if we keep going
with this. And we have places to be.”
She flops back with a sigh. “You’re right. What time is it?” She twists around and looks at the clock on the nightstand. “Guess we have to return to the land of the living.” Her eyes go wide then and she stares at me. “Fuck!”
“What’s wrong?”
She leaps off the bed and pats her body like she’s checking her nonexistent pockets. “My keycard! I am such a fucking idiot! I left it in my room last night. Goddamnit! I didn’t even bring my phone with me and I’m supposed to get a text from my client this morning telling when he’s ready for his tattoo.”
She runs to the door and I follow her, but she’s barely stepped out before she spins and smacks into me. “What am I thinking? It’s not like the stupid door is unlocked. Shit!”
“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing her elbows and steering her back into the room. “I’ll call the front desk. They can send someone up to let you in.”
She plops back down on the bed with her face in her hands, groaning. I pick up the phone and dial, then explain the issue to the person who answers, and they promise to send someone right away.
“God, what would I do without you?” she says when I hang up.
“You’re a big girl. You’d figure it out.”
She sighs. “Yeah, but it’s much nicer to have you around to help keep me sane.”
She flops back again, and I’m momentarily dazed by the tangle of inked lines that are revealed across her belly and hips when her tank top rides up. Clearing my throat, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
The knock sounds just as I’m washing my hands. I manage to slip into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt before Toni opens the door. The suited woman on the other side smiles blandly and eyes me, a spark of interest flaring before she turns back to Toni. “Are you Ms. Valentine?”